


Wall of Breath

by KelpietheThundergod



Series: Right Where The Ocean [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Post-Episode s10e19 The Werther Project, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And again.</p>
<p>That very night, he gets a blessed three hours of darkness. After purgatory, after the basement, he sleeps three hours deep and dreamless. Then lies awake for another two, jittery and exhausted, and stares at the walls of his room. Tries to think of nothing, to force himself back into his bones.</p>
<p>The rest of the day he feels calmer, but also like he's waiting for something. He'd thought it might be good to take a breather for one day. Sam though shuffles some files and other crap on the library tables around for awhile, and then abruptly declares he's going for a drive to clear his head. Dean lets him go. Sam has a distracted and stressed air around him. Understandable with the fucking thing with the creepy box. But Sam won't meet his eyes for long, and his shoulders and back are rigid and tense. Sam is still in soldier mode, although there is literally nothing and no one to fight right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wall of Breath

 

 

 

_**wall of breath** _

_brittle in your bones_

_you'll see_

 

_we have returned to distant shores_

_so near_

 

  

 

 

 

And again.

That very night, he gets a blessed three hours of darkness. After purgatory, after the basement, he sleeps three hours deep and dreamless. Then lies awake for another two, jittery and exhausted, and stares at the walls of his room. Tries to think of nothing, to force himself back into his bones.

The rest of the day he feels calmer, but also like he's waiting for something. He'd thought it might be good to take a breather for one day. Sam though shuffles some files and other crap on the library tables around for awhile, and then abruptly declares he's going for a drive to clear his head. Dean lets him go. Sam has a distracted and stressed air around him. Understandable with the fucking thing with the creepy box. But Sam won't meet his eyes for long, and his shoulders and back are rigid and tense. Sam is still in soldier mode, although there is literally nothing and no one to fight right now.

Dean falls asleep with his headphones still on. And there he is again.

>

It's a beach.

For a moment, he thinks it's _his_ beach. The one that looked different both times he was there, in his dreams, but that he still just knew was his. Now, he knows he's dreaming, and he knows it's not the same as before. But it's nice; the sky a soft blue, the ocean calm and the waves spilling gently onto the white sand.

“You want some sunscreen?”

Dean turns around and then frowns in confusion.

“What are you doing in my dream?” Cole just grins, puts the sunscreen back on the ground. He's sitting cross-legged in the sand. A little boy is sitting opposite him, building a sand castle with solemn concentration. “Could ask you the same thing, but I figure you have a reason for being here.” Cole reaches over and gives a small red bucket of water to the boy, who uses it to make a pond in the middle of the castle. The water spreads out and glistens in the sun, then gets soaked up by the sand. Dean throws another glance at the ocean and the shore-line, then comes closer and crouches down. “This your kid?”

Cole just nods, proud, and then shoves more sand over with both his hands to support the walls of the castle. “That's not what you came here to ask me though.” He falls silent after that, and Dean watches his hands pat the sand against the walls. His eyes get caught by Cole's tattoo, and suddenly he knows.

“Why 'strength to change'?"

Cole laughs quietly without looking up, but there is a sad undercurrent to it. He continues helping the boy build his castle while he talks. “I searched for you so long... to kill you. And after that, there'd be – nothing. Came a point where I thought that was all there was and all I am.” He pauses, and Dean feels cold for a moment despite the gentle heat of the sun above. “This was a reminder,” Cole continues, taking the bucket back from the boy when he holds it out to him. “But I guess I had to meet you to really get what it meant.”

Dean nods, his throat too tight to speak. He sits down in the sand too, and picks up a sea shell when it bumps against his bare feet. It's white and dry, and shiny on the inside. He cleans it up with his fingers, then blows his breath against it to clear away the grains stuck between its rills. On impulse, he reaches out and sets it on top of the castle. The wind picks up a notch, and through the rush and whisper of the waves he barely hears, “Had that with you the whole time, didn't you?”

>

The ghost slams him into a wall, and then another one. It knocks the breath out of Dean, and he struggles to stand up again. The air is dry and cool, and the smell of the salt round hangs heavy all around. The interior is faded blues and dust, and almost completely destroyed. “What are doing with my house?! What are you doing with my _house_?!” The ghost is screaming, its fingers close around Dean's throat and it presses him up against the wall. Its form is flickering, the edges fuzzy and too bright. Like it's lit up and over-spilling with anger and madness and pain.

His shotgun out of reach, Dean fumbles to get a hold of his iron bar. He's thrown into the next wall before he can reach it, crumbles to the floor in a heap. He holds up his hands, fights through the pain and the dizziness, “Listen to me! You're stuck here, do you realize that? Whatever you're feeling, it's only going to get worse!”

The ghost looks off to the side, muttering to itself too quiet for Dean to understand. But then its head whips around, and its eyes focus on Dean with a fevered intensity. “No! No, they're all still here! They're still here, why won't they hear me?!” From one moment to the next, it's crouched in front of Dean, pressing its hand against his forehead, “You will see!” Dean recoils, bangs his head against the wall behind him. The ghost's hand on his skin is so cold it hurts. He gasps, and then his breath gets caught in his throat. Like a double vision, he sees a woman standing next to the ghost. She has lightly curled blond hair and is wearing a blouse of faded green. He can't see her face. Somehow, he knows her hands are soft and that she smells like lavender.

The wind blows the curtains into the room, and he can still see their ragged remains, but over that he sees the way they were before, pearly white and almost see-through. Whispering with every breeze. The room smells like mildew and old wood, but now there's also the scent of flowers in the spring. He hears water splashing in the yard, and children laughing.

The ghost is whipping its head around, wide-eyed, sobbing. Dean can feel tears prick at his eyes, but he can't say whose they are. The ghost's touch is like a knife, digging into him, but he grits his teeth against the pain. “They're not here,” he forces out, his breath an icy cloud between them. “You have to go, and I can help you.” The ghost looks frantically back and forth between him and the things it can no longer touch, torn with indecision. Then it withdraws its hand, and the woman and the curtains and the laughter fade away and disappear. There is more light behind its eyes now.

“What do I have to – ”

 

It goes up in flames.

Dean flinches, throws an arm over his face and turns his head towards the floor. It's not fire, not to him. But the ghost's agonizing screams sear through his head, and the air is toxic with heat and electricity. And then the silence.

He lifts his head, and the room is empty. Ash falls to the floor without a sound, and the breeze ruffles what is left of the dirty curtains. The soft sound of a wind chime comes from somewhere else in the house. Dean is just pushing himself off the floor, his heart heavy, when Sam thunders up the stairs of the basement and pushes into the room. He spots Dean on the other side of the room and strides over quickly, concern and frustration on his face. “Sorry. The keys were buried somewhere down in some trash, no idea why someone would put them there. Took me forever to find them.” Dean just nods, absently brushing the dust from his clothes. The wind chime sounds again. Sam still has the lighter clutched in his hand.

>

They go home, and after a few hours of idling, Dean finds himself alone in the library. The room is way too big and empty for one person, and so he wanders back through the hallways to his own. He sits down on his bed, rubs absently at his left forearm while he lies down on his side, still fully clothed. He just wants to lie still for a moment, doesn't feel like noise and distraction right now.

He falls asleep with his door left wide open, and his head turned towards the light of the bedside lamp. He falls asleep listening to his breath, the sound it makes in the room. Against these walls, the rush and the whisper.

 


End file.
